


Things Left Unsaid

by wilma_de_worde



Series: A Thousand Apologies [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I want to hug you so hard all the time, Lost Love, Papa Greg, Papa Greg being Papa Greg, Post-The Sign of Three, Pre-The Sign of Three, Pregnancy, Pubs lead to talking, Sherlock does not trust pubs, Sherlock doesn't know how to handle problems, Sherlock hates talking, Sherlock's scarf is his comfort object, The Sign of Three Spoilers, Unrequited Love, Weddings, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilma_de_worde/pseuds/wilma_de_worde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE.  John Watson is getting married in three days' time and Sherlock's carefully constructed facade is slowly unravelling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bitter

Sherlock was in a pub. The world had clearly gone mad.

Lestrade appeared and set a pint of lager on the table in front of him. Sherlock stared at it. Lestrade plopped onto the barstool across from him and took a long pull of his drink before fixing Sherlock with an unhurried, even look.

Sherlock frowned.

‘I’m sorry, what exactly is going on here?’

‘We’re having a pint and a chat.’

‘And what is the purpose of this activity?’

He shrugged. ‘Thought you might need it.’

His brow furrowed. ‘You thought _I_ might need a pint and a chat?’

‘Yes.’

‘ _Me_.’

‘Yes, you.’

‘Do I strike you as a pint-and-chat kind of man?’

He sighed and took another drink. ‘Sherlock, you’ve been moping around for weeks.’

'"Mope”? What do you mean, “mope”? I don’t mope.’

‘You absolutely mope,’ he chuffed. ‘You are a champion moper. Winner of the gold medal in the moping Olympics.’ Sherlock scowled. ‘Hey, don’t be sore at me. I’m just _observing_. I thought you liked that sort of thing.’

‘Alright, fine, two can play at that game. What, pray tell, do you deduce to be the cause of this supposed moping?’

‘John’s getting married.’

Sherlock felt his jaw set. He refused to acknowledge it. ‘And why should that matter to me?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe because you’re still in love with him?’

Sherlock hoped his cheeks weren’t as red as he thought they might be. ‘Who’s saying that? And what do you mean, “still”? Who would possibly suggest _that_ in the first place? I mean, yes; I feel affection for John in a sort of platonic, gentlemanly way. He’s my friend-- _best_ friend--and colleague and I hold him in the highest regard; of course I do. Anything further than that though is--it’s preposterous is what it is. Who would ever think that I’m in love with--with John?’ He swallowed. ‘In that way. Romantically speaking, I presume.’

‘Are you done?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that rambling speech, was that supposed to be evidence to the contrary? Jesus, Sherlock, everybody knows.’ His face burned. He pulled his pint toward him, wondering if there might be something to the concept of one finding solace in alcohol. Lestrade offered a companionable smile. ‘We all knew what was going on as soon as it happened; you know that. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t suddenly start acting agreeable without having something really good to be happy about.’ His flush crept up to his ears. He took a drink and grimaced at the bitterness. Lestrade waited for him to recover before continuing. ‘Look, I know things have been a bit…different since you got back. I know that’s been hard for you.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of handling my own problems, thank you.’

‘And I never said you weren’t.’ He leaned against the table, the picture of experience and fatherly advice. Sherlock felt ill. ‘I just wanted to remind you that, well. I’m here if you want to talk.’

‘You think I _want_ to talk.’

‘I think you _should_ talk.’

‘There’s nothing for me to say.’

‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’

He sighed. ‘Lestrade, it’s not that I don’t appreciate…’ He waved between them. ‘…whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish. But it is a bit needless. John and Mary are very happy together, I’m sure.’ He licked his lips, pitching his voice into indifference. ‘Anyway. He’s always wanted to get married. I say well done him for getting what he wants.’

Lestrade smirked. It was extremely irritating. ‘And it didn’t occur to you that the person he wanted to marry might be you?’

Sherlock forced down another swallow. ‘I’m not the marrying kind.’

‘I don’t believe for a second that you wouldn’t be for him.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes, praying that London’s criminal underground might be so kind as to begin a killing spree on the street outside the pub and save him from this mortifying conversation. ‘He knows, Sherlock. He’s got to know.’

‘Current events would suggest that to be inconsequential information.’

‘You weren’t here. You don’t know what it was like. He was devastated, mate. We almost lost him. After you left, he didn’t want to live anymore.’

‘And then he met Mary and all was right with the world. I have figured this out already, you know. It’s not an arduous conclusion to cultivate.’

‘You know, for being a genius and all, you’re incredibly stupid. Do you really think she replaced you? Don’t be daft; he loves you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ The table wobbled under the force of his fist, tiny splashes of foam flecking his hand as his lager settled. The pub went quiet, all eyes on their table. Lestrade’s gaze hadn’t faltered. He waited for the mundane conversations to pick back up and lowered his voice. ‘You are swiftly entering territory into which you are not welcome. My relationship with John is my own affair: mine and his and no one else’s. I can assure you he is more than content where he is. Mary is the most suitable candidate for the post of his partner that I have yet to encounter. _Yes, that includes me_. I’m not about to muck that up for him just because you seem fixated on true love finding us in the end. What’s done is done and I’m not jeopardizing his future for my gain. There’s been quite enough of that already, wouldn’t you say?’

‘So you don’t deny it.’

‘Deny what?’

‘That you’re in love with him.’

He growled and knocked his head against the table. ‘It’s not _important_ , Lestrade.’

‘It’s not important that you’re in love with your best mate and he’s in love with you and he’s planning to get married to someone else in three days’ time?’

‘Nope.’ He sat up again, his lips popping on the plosive. ‘As I said, your concern is appreciated. But the fact of the matter is that my leaving is what set this whole farce in motion. I’m in no position to question his motives or tell him what to do.’

‘And the fact that you only left to protect him is, what? Just window dressing?’

‘More or less, yes.’

Lestrade gaped at him. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

He sighed. ‘Don’t.’

‘You’re going to let the best thing that ever happened to you walk out of your life because you’re too scared to fight for him?’

‘You’re being absurd. John is not “walking out of my life”. He’s not dying; he’s getting married.’

‘To someone else.’

‘To Mary, yes. Lovely woman. I believe you’ve met her.’

‘But he’s your match!’

‘He’s my _friend_.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Honestly, you sound like one of those ridiculous novels Mrs Hudson goes on about. Why do you care?’

‘I _care_ about you. _Both_ of you.’

‘Then leave it alone.’

‘No.’ Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. ‘You need each other.’

‘I am at John’s disposal in whatever capacity he requires me.’

‘Shut it.’ Lestrade glared, an accusing finger aimed at Sherlock’s chest. ‘You’re a coward.’

He scoffed on a laugh. ‘I’m what?’

‘You are. You’re a bloody coward.’

Sherlock sputtered. ‘ _I_ am respecting John’s position!’

‘No, you aren’t. You’re backing down because you don’t want to face up to how much you hurt him.’

‘Really, Lestrade, tone down the dramatics--’

‘He nearly jumped into traffic because of you, and instead of spending the rest of your life making it up to him, you’re throwing in the towel and letting someone else clean up your mess.’

Sherlock drained his glass. ‘I don’t have time for this.’

‘He loves you. He’s a good man and he deserves to get whatever he wants. But that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?’

‘I’m leaving.’ He stood and tugged on his coat.

‘It’s just too much to ask that John Watson actually gets to be happy, even if it is with an arse like you.’

Sherlock tapped the table and forced a cold, polite smile. ‘Good evening.’ He grabbed his scarf and headed for the door.

‘You owe me five quid, you tosser!’

‘It’s closer to twenty now, actually. Do keep up.’ He shoved open the door and stepped into the warm London night. 

His pulse was racing. That wouldn’t do. He flipped up his collar and walked back to the empty flat, attempting to silence the ringing in his ears.


	2. Needles

_**Did you get home alright last night?** _

_Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I? --SH_

_**You seemed a bit pissed.**_

_I was. –SH_

_**Obviously.**_

_**You still owe me five quid.** _

***

Lestrade had texted him fourteen times already. That was easily thirteen more times than was at all necessary. Why couldn’t anyone understand that they ought to just leave him _alone_? Text, call, knock him up, none of it would change the fact that there was nothing left to be said. Nothing would change what was due to happen the day after next. No point in drawing it out any more than was necessary or adding salt to his wounds. Odd how so many people could act like nuisances and think of it as ‘being supportive’. 

***

_**Stag Night tonight?**_

_Indeed. –SH_

_**Will you be ok?**_

_This inquisition is unnecessary, Lestrade. –SH_

_**Just want to make sure you’re ok.**_

_**It’s what friends do.** _

_I don’t have friends. –SH_

_**Nobody buys that anymore, mate.**_

***

_**Still hungover?**_

_Go away. –SH_

_**I’m just wondering.**_

_You’re not helpful. –SH_

_**How’s John?**_

_With Mrs H. –SH_

_**Did you talk to him?**_

_Good day, Lestrade. –SH_

_**So no?**_

_Good day. –SH_

_**You know, it works better if you don’t respond.**_

_**Yes, like that.** _

_**You’re definitely improving.** _

_**You should talk to him.** _

_**You should’ve talked to him six months ago.** _

_**Are you talking to him now?** _

_**You aren’t, are you?** _

_**You’re an idiot.** _

_**I’m sending a car over if you don’t text me back.** _

_FOR GOD’S SAKE, STOP IT. –SH_

***

The interference was intolerable. He had long ago accepted that the DI had an inexplicable need to act as caretaker, but that didn’t stop it from being extremely irritating. Sherlock was not in need of a Mother Hen. Sherlock was not in need of anyone checking in or touching base or using ridiculous aphorisms they had no doubt picked up from some grandmother or other. He got enough of that from Mrs Hudson and there was no escaping her. Sherlock knew what he needed; so did Lestrade. What was the point of pretending that anything else would suffice? 

Of course, Sherlock wasn’t about to _get_ what he needed. That was out of the question. That opportunity had passed him by some time ago. Well, less ‘passed him by’ and more ‘crashed in a bloody heap on the pavement as he dove off the roof of a multi-story building’, but who could bother with parsing words in this day and age? The big picture was far more important in cases such as these.

***

_**Need a lift?**_

_No. –SH_

_**You sure?** _

_There is a train. –SH_

_**Thought you might want some company.**_

_I can assure you that’s the last thing I want right now. –SH_

_**I don’t mind going early.**_

_I do. –SH_

_**Don’t forget the rings.**_

_Sod off. –SH_

_**I’m here if you need me.**_

_I don’t. –SH_


	3. Charlie and Emma

He had hoped the twitchy agitation in his limbs would decrease the further he travelled from the wedding, but instead it seeped into his bones. A weighty gloom settled deep in his stomach. It was too late to catch a train back to London, too far to call a cab, too quiet to go back to the tatty hotel and sit and ache and wait for his mind to dissolve into jam and wonder about the train that would never come. So he walked. And he thought.

A thousand miles from civilisation in a dreadful, tiny town with loads of bloody nothing: no distractions, no desolation, nothing to occupy his racing, frantic mind. And John wasn’t here. John was dancing with his wife. John was going to be a father. And he was going to be well and truly alone.

He stopped in his tracks and swore. This wouldn’t _do_. How often had he thought that over the last few days? He couldn’t keep wandering and _moping_ and decaying into the heap of bruised, weary abandonment that was eating away at him from somewhere in his chest. There had to be something in this godforsaken village that could dial it all down for a few hours at least. Long enough for the first train back to London to arrive in the station. Long enough to keep him from making good on his threats to throw himself off another building and to skip the padding this time around. Not that there were any buildings nearby tall enough to suffice. Another reason to despise the bloody country. He turned and headed toward the poor excuse for a village square, debating the likelihood of finding anything of interest. The odds were not currently in his favour.

He wasn’t often wrong. At least this time around he was happy about it.

He scaled the trellis and forced open the window of his room, pulling himself inside with ease. He’d spotted two affairs, three petty thefts, and an impressive number of unknown familial relations in his brief trek from the pub. Not a bad haul for a horrid little village with hardly forty-six individual chromosomes to share among its fish-eyed residents. He flopped fully-dressed onto the bed, pulling his scarf over his face and enjoying the soft-scratchy-woolly touch of the fibres on his cheeks and nose. He dissected its varied scents: tobacco and smog and dust and salty sea air, the lingering sandalwood of John’s cologne that never, ever managed to vacate the flat--

Something was wrong, something off in his room. He wondered if he might be coming down as he pulled the scarf from his eyes.

_Bollocks._

‘There’s a door, you know. Very nice girl at the front desk. I’m sure she’d let you in.’

He tossed the scarf over his face again. The room looked far better that way. ‘What do you _want_ , Lestrade?’

‘Molly saw you leave.’

‘She’s a very astute woman. You shouldn’t be fooled by the ridiculous hair accessories.’

‘She was worried about you.’

‘She’s always worried about me.’

‘Seemed to think you might do something stupid.’

He breathed in the comforting odours of the fabric. That bloody cologne. It would stalk him forever like a too-fond ghost, loathed and loved in equal measure. _God, it’s been a long day._ ‘Is this going to be a lengthy lecture? I’ve got plans.’

‘And here I thought you’d just come back from them.’

‘This is not a time to trifle with me.’

‘I thought you were clean.’

‘I _was_.’

‘But you’re not now, are you?’

‘It is _remarkable_ how the government no longer requires even a rudimentary understanding of the English language prior to promotion within its ranks. You really lucked out, Lestrade.’

‘What did you take?’

‘I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours.’

‘So you did take something.’

‘I fancied a moonlit trellis climb.’

‘Jesus Christ, Sherlock, _this is not funny!_ ’ He blew hard on his scarf, enjoying its excited puff and the slow descent back to his face. What was the time? Would John and Mary be back in their room by now? Would they be in bed already? Rubbish sex holiday off to a terrific start. But perhaps John would be in the bath still, John enjoyed baths, and what if Mary was in there with him, her fingers outlining the subtle slope of his triceps and John’s mouth kissing her mouth and her neck and all warm water and soft sounds and he’d better stop this train of thought before it crashed and engulfed him in flames and the entire purpose of his brief liaise with the spotty fellow behind the pub was defeated. He noticed Lestrade was still talking. ‘How could you do this? Here of all places! Are you completely mental?’

‘Available evidence would suggest the affirmative.’

‘How could you do this to him?’

‘He isn’t going to know.’

‘What, and you believe that, do you?’

He sighed. The brief, heightened clarity he had enjoyed on his trot back from the pub was dissipating, replaced by a tolerable apathy. He folded his scarf back against his chest before rolling on his side to study the irritated man in his hotel chair. ‘Do you plan on telling him? I certainly do not.’

Lestrade seethed. His jaw set. ‘I should, you know. I absolutely should. You deserve that thrashing.’ He shook his head, his tongue pressed between his teeth. ‘His best friend sneaks out of his wedding to shoot up. He’d never forgive you.’

‘He shouldn’t.’

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

It was becoming harder to keep his emotions in check. The cauldron of his mind bubbled and churned, his mouth wanting to vomit syrupy sentiments all over the ostentatious rug. What was the harm? It wasn’t as if Lestrade hadn’t seen him high before. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already dug himself into a bottomless pit and his life wasn’t in shreds and every good and noble thing in his universe wasn’t probably in the bath in a nearby room with a person who _wasn’t him_ and this wasn’t doomed to be state of things for the remainder of his miserable existence. He pushed himself to sitting and rubbed hard at his eyes. ‘I don’t even know how to begin to answer that question.’

There was a heavy sigh and a long silence. He allowed his mind to drift. Lestrade sat beside him on the bed. They stared at the now empty chair.

‘I think I needed that lager after all.’

Lestrade huffed a humourless laugh. ‘Doesn’t take a genius to see that.’

He couldn’t argue against the point. He chewed on his bottom lip and flicked through a multitude of memories, each more bittersweet than the last. He recalled the last hotel where he had stayed, the one with the disagreeable concierge and the soft, white eiderdown they had shredded on their second evening, the broad table set low enough to perfectly suit John’s height. He thought of Sherrinford’s pleased smile and John giggling into yet another drink as Sherlock slurred and stumbled through the haze of whiskey. 

Of course, that was in another lifetime. The future had been a better place then. 

He sucked on his bottom lip, mortified to taste salt on his skin. He scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his coat before pulling a long, trembling breath. A soft breeze billowed the curtains against the foot of the bed.

‘Greg?’

Lestrade turned and looked at him. ‘Yeah?’

He wet his lips. His eyes hadn’t left the empty chair. ‘I don’t want to live without him again.’

Lestrade patted his back and pulled him into a sideways hug. Sherlock closed his eyes and begged the morphine to take his mind away.

He slept through the entire ride back to London. Lestrade dropped him off at Baker Street and promised to check in on him later.

He never breathed a word of this to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last bit was inspired by a bit of headcanon I read on Tumblr ages and ages ago and haven't been able to get out of my mind. I have no idea who posted it (and have been unable to find it since), but whoever it was, they're brilliant. Please send it my way if you happen to come across it so I can properly source the excellence.
> 
> Drugs are bad, especially when using them to speedball. I don't condone drug use. Please don't go out and do drugs because of me. They aren't cool just because Sherlock does them. He's a deeply unhappy man at the moment and no one should take advice from him on handling problems.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own these characters and I never have. And while ACD may regret writing them, I'm pleased as punch that he did.


End file.
